


The Curiosity For Life

by FievreAlgide



Category: French Revolution RPF
Genre: Features reflections on suicide and death., M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-05-25
Updated: 2008-05-25
Packaged: 2018-04-19 05:46:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,128
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4734788
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FievreAlgide/pseuds/FievreAlgide
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Saint-Just leaves the Committee of Public Safety to meet Robespierre. Facing the impossibility of meeting him that evening, he decides to take a closer look at the Seine, rather than return directly to the Pavillon Égalité (where the CSP sits in the Tuileries). There, he reflects on death and politics.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Curiosity For Life

Saint-Just had just dipped his quill into the inkwell to finish a letter to the _Société populaire_ of Strasbourg – replying to the news they had given on the development of free schools in the _département_ of Bas-Rhin – when Barère exclaimed “Ah!” Saint-Just didn’t look up at first, used to purposeless outcries from this particular citizen _du Midi_ , until Barère called to him.

“Eh, Saint-Just,” he said. “Would this happen to be the document Robespierre was looking for so particularly?”

He handed it to Prieur de la Côte d’Or, sitting on his left, who gave it to Saint-Just.

“I found it between two reports on the war against England,” Barère added.

Saint-Just took a look at the document, skimming through its three pages.

“I think this should be it,” he replied. “Thank you, Barère.”

Saint-Just placed the document inside his portfolio. He finished his letter and softly blew over it to dry the ink. The flame of the two candles next to him flickered slightly. Then, he put it too in the portfolio, along with some other papers spread on his side of the table.

“I’m going to pay a visit to Robespierre,” Saint-Just announced, as he stood and pushed back his chair. “We will see if it’s the right document. I may be back later. _Salut et fraternité, citoyens_.”

Barère and Prieur nodded to Saint-Just and saluted him. He could sense their stares following him as he exited the _Pavillon Égalité_.

***

The Seine was a beautiful sight at night, Saint-Just mused. The light from the oil lampposts was glimmering on the surface of the quiet water, streaming slowly between remnants of ice floes. The night was quite cold. Saint-Just hoped it wouldn’t bring bad crops as there had been in previous years. He rubbed his gloves together to warm up his hands. Indeed, it was quite cold, but Saint-Just didn’t care that much. It had been slightly colder in Alsace and he had tolerated it well.

He rested his elbows against the stone parapet, looking further down at the icy water. He wondered what it would feel like to dive into it. Maybe like nothing, at first. A great shock. Then, the pain would come, like a thousand knives. Should a thousand knives simultaneously be preferred to a single one jabbed into the heart or sliced across the neck? Better? Faster? More sublime? Though it is true that corpses that have been stabbed look better than drowned corpses.

Saint-Just remembered one of the latter he had seen, long ago.

It was not the first corpse Saint-Just had seen. After all, his father had died when he was barely ten years old. However, it was the first _drowned_ corpse he had seen.

He must have been twelve or thirteen years old. It was one of the first times he had visited Soissons, one of the Oratorian priests following the group of young college boys closely. Saint-Just tried to detach himself from the others, appreciating a short moment of freedom in order to forget the discipline of the strict Oratorians. Some men’s shouts caught his attention: fishermen were taking the corpse of a woman from the river Aisne. Saint-Just’s gaze would have remained fixed on her much longer had the priest not pulled his ear as he found him, scolding _“Monsieur de Saint-Just”_ for risking getting lost in a practically unknown city at an age of such innocence. The priest had muttered something about the inherent corrupting power of cities and something else about the fate of this woman’s soul’s depending on their common prayers. He had added that, if Saint-Just wasn’t careful, his own soul would be endangered by this curiosity for death. Saint-Just hadn’t listened. It wasn’t _curiosity for death_. It was curiosity for life. Saint-Just wondered what had happened to this woman. Had she killed herself? Had she been murdered? Had she kept her purity? Was she a maiden or a wife? A mother? How old was she? Did her family know what had happened to her? Did she have a family? Was she poor or rich? A peasant or a bourgeoise? Who was she? What was her name? Questions no one would answer. Questions that would be dismissed as foolish if he, at such a young age, had asked anyone. Many women were found drowned. _What does it matter?_ they would reply. Nowadays, it _could_ have importance. Yet, he doubted anyone really cared. He was the only person in the world at the moment to be thinking of that drowned woman.

No, Saint-Just concluded, he wouldn’t like to drown. He couldn’t know if the feeling this sort of death would bring to him would be worth it. He tried to imagine what could happen after his disappearance. There would be a big fuss in the newspapers. Rumours would spread, then calumny. Some would pretend he had run away. His friends would defend him, of course. The Committee would have to calm down the situation at the Convention. Couthon and Le Bas would wonder anxiously what happened. Thuillier and Gateau would worry and start their own investigation. And Robespierre…

Maximilien would be alarmed.

But not so much as he would be when he learned what had happened to him.

Like that of the drowned woman, his corpse’s looks would appal them. Maybe some would sneer about his lost beauty. Or regret it.

As with the drowned woman, they would forever wonder the cause of his death. Knowing them, though, they would attribute it to the counter-revolutionaries, thereby obtaining new proof that patriots were in fatal danger. No one would ever know the real cause. Except, perhaps, for Maximilien. Maybe he would have a clue.

Yet, he too might attribute it to Saint-Just’s _curiosity for death_.

Saint-Just blinked. He was feeling slightly numb from the cold and rubbed his cheeks briskly to wake the blood. Taking off one of his gloves, he absently stroked one of his cheeks with the tips of his fingers. As he put his glove back on, he looked up at the sky. The moon was hard to see, hiding behind clouds. There were no stars. He put his hands in the pockets of his heavy coat, trying to warm them up. There, in the left pocket, he found a piece of paper. He knew what it was. He had put it there one hour earlier.

One hour earlier, Saint-Just had knocked at the door of Duplays’ house.

***

As always, the eldest daughter, Éléonore Duplay, opened the door to greet Maximilien’s visitors. She glanced awkwardly at the ground when she saw who the visitor was, always seeming embarrassed in the presence of this man who was barely one year older than her. Even after all these months, she hadn’t accustomed herself to Saint-Just’s many visits to this house.

“Good evening, Citoyenne Duplay,” Saint-Just said.

“Good evening, Citoyen,” she replied hastily, making way so that he could step into the house. She adjusted her cap, pushing back some dark curls of hair.

“I saw there was light in Robespierre’s room. Is he still working?”

“Yes—” Saint-Just was about to start climbing the familiar stairs when a single word held him back: “But…”

He turned, curtly, one foot still resting on the first step of the stairs. “What?”

Her hands were moving nervously about her dress, fingers gripping at the thick cloth around her waist.

“He’s with Citoyen Desmoulins.”

Saint-Just frowned. “Again?”

“I think they are discussing the next issue of his journal.”

“Agreeing or arguing?”

A moment passed between them, during which they kept their eyes on each other. A moment of silent comprehension about what should be answered.

“Arguing,” Éléonore said finally.

With this, Saint-Just continued up the stairs. Éléonore didn’t object or oppose him and, after watching him disappear onto the second floor, returned to her work.

Saint-Just knocked on the door of Robespierre’s room and then swiftly opened it, not waiting for anyone to answer. It could not be noticed on his face, but he was infinitely glad to interrupt the discussion.

Robespierre and Desmoulins both turned from their chairs. Robespierre smiled. Saint-Just smiled too.

“Saint-Just!” Robespierre exclaimed with joy, not expecting the visit. “What brings you here this late?”

He left his chair to greet his friend.

“Bonsoir Ro—” In awareness of who else was present in the room, Saint-Just changed his mind on the choice of name. “—Maximilien. I just left the Committee a few minutes ago. Barère thinks he has found the document you were searching for earlier this afternoon.”

“Ah, this is wonderful, Antoine.” He looked ingenuously cheerful. “Do you have it with you?”

“Of course, in my portfolio.”

Saint-Just took the portfolio he was holding under his arm, opening it to remove the few pages of paper. Robespierre lowered the glasses resting on his forehead onto his nose, taking a closer look at the document.

“Yes,” he replied. “Yes, I think this is it.” He looked up at Saint-Just again. “Thank you very much.” He smiled and walked towards his desk, putting the papers in one of the drawers to check later. During this time, Saint-Just finally met the stare Desmoulins had been directing at him ever since he had entered the room. But then, Robespierre turned again and gestured Saint-Just over to the desk. “Come, Antoine. Come here.” Saint-Just walked closer. “Camille had been telling me of his ideas for the next issue of _Le Vieux Cordelier_.”

“I don’t think you’ve seen the first issue, Saint-Just,” said Desmoulins. “Of course, you were in Alsace when it was released.”

There was a slight scoffing sound in Desmoulins’ voice, too slight for Robespierre to ever notice. Of course, he didn’t notice the frozen tension that had fallen between the two men either. They tried, in tacit agreement, not to make it obvious when Desmoulins handed a copy of the previous issue from _Le Vieux Cordelier_ to Saint-Just.

Saint-Just glared at it briefly, then shoved it into one of the pockets of his coat, heedless of creasing the paper. “Thank you,” he answered indifferently.

Saint-Just then turned to Robespierre, ignoring the third man. “There is an affair I wish to discuss with you, Maximilien.” There was something intriguing in the long stare they exchanged, eyes fixed, seeming to await something, or to resist something. “I am sorry, Antoine,” Robespierre finally whispered, too quietly it seemed. “We’re not quite finished yet. It will need to wait for tomorrow.” Saint-Just broke the eye contact, fixing an empty spot of the room. He nervously brought a hand to his ear, playing lightly with his hoop earring, then passing his fingers through his hair. It was an odd gesture – he could recognise it himself. He wasn’t the nervous kind. Swiftly, he looked back at Robespierre and concluded, “Very well, Citoyen.” He turned and left as fast as he had come, his boots thumping on the wooden floor. It didn’t take long after he shut the door behind him to hear the two men arguing. Saint-Just frowned.

***

Saint-Just seized hold of the paper in his pocket, taking it out to look at it. Resting against the parapet once more, he smoothed the journal’s paper sheets against it and took a closer look at it. He couldn’t see much in the dark. He didn’t want to see much anyway. He knew what was written in there. False praise for Maximilien Robespierre. _How long will this opportunist waste Maxime’s time?_ Saint-Just wondered. An angry and exasperated sigh escaped his lips. _Maximilien needs to waste time with him too, apparently. For now._

Sometimes, he disliked politics greatly, fatally condemned to oppose the Revolution someday – or fatally condemned to _this_ because it was the wish of many men, those who kept silent, those who waited. If the Revolution was swallowing his passion, politics meant to slowly replace it with cynicism. He would not let that happen. The Revolution would devour him entirely first. Saint-Just sneered. He loathed those words Vergniaud had chosen to hand down to posterity. Posterity deserved better than this _phrase_. Words already made to be famous, that everybody repeated in a whisper between closed teeth when they were unhappy with the course of events, when their personal interests were not satisfied as they believed they should be. Words meant to kill hope for a new millennium of oppression.

Saint-Just started playing with his earring again. This newly developed nervousness was quite unnerving. He suddenly wished Robespierre’s fingers were the ones playing with it, stroking the hair next to his ear, as he rested his head on his pillow or against his shoulder.

In one hand, he crumpled Desmoulins’ paper into a ball and released it, letting it fall over the parapet. The wind would bring it to the Seine.

Desmoulins’ journal would drown.

 

 

The End.

**Author's Note:**

>  **Set In:** Nivôse Year II, between Saint-Just’s mission in Alsace (finishing on December 30 1793) and his first mission in the North (starting on January 22 1794).
> 
> Beta'ed by [](http://estellacat.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://estellacat.livejournal.com/)**estellacat**.
> 
> In case you’re wondering what’s Vergniaud’s phrase that Saint-Just is angry about, it’s the _“The Revolution eats its children like Saturn”_ one. And because I care about omsb!historical accuracy, he actually did bash that phrase IRL in the _Report on the Conjuration_ against Danton, presented on 11 germinal Year II (p. 733 of Abensour’s edition of the _Œuvres complètes_ if you happen to have it):
> 
> _Ceux qui depuis quatre ans ont conspiré sous le voile du patriotisme, aujourd’hui que la justice les menace, répètent ce mot de Vergniaud : « La révolution est comme Saturne : elle dévorera tous ses enfants. » Hébert répétait ce mot pendant son procès ; il est répété par tous ceux qui tremblent et qui se voient démasqués. Non, la révolution ne dévorera pas ses enfants, mais ses ennemis de quelque masque impénétrable qu’ils se soient couverts !_


End file.
